There was a chance
by FortySeventhLight
Summary: She had gone over the math all night, but Sam still couldn't get over the fact that she pulled the trigger... Sam x Martouf


A/N: Here we have an angsty piece on Sam dealing with what she had to do to poor Martouf in "Divide and Conquer". I didn't think the series tied this relationship up right, so here's my take on it. Enjoy!

Dun own Stargate, as always...

**

* * *

**

**There was a Chance**

The hours ticked away on the base, many personnel retiring for the night and relinquishing their duties to the next watch. But as the lights and computers turned off one by one, the methodical beeping in Samantha Carter's lab continued on through the night.

She sat at her desk, obsessively throwing herself into mathematical equations of generally impossible magnitude, and somehow found comfort in such taxing work. Anything was worth it, though – she had to get the memories out of her head. She wanted all traces of the scene to be taken away, never to be seen or spoken of again. Colonel O'neill, though not fond of the Tok'ra in general, felt sympathetic towards a select few, especially the one his second in command was forced to kill.

"I didn't want to do it," she wrote on a piece of paper that had various arithmetic scribbles all over the page, falling off of the pale blue lines the sheet provided. Feeling better after writing it, she compulsively began to repeat the action, frantically writing the phrase down until her handwriting was indiscernible to even the well-trained eye. She wanted to stop feeling guilty.

As her grip around the pencil began to quaver, she turned the sheet over, and after her fingers practically wrapped around the utensil, she wrote the phrase down one more time. Perhaps she thought that by writing it bigger and bolder it would make the shame of her actions go away, but it only made her feel worse, for through the thin paper she could see her equations on the other side, each calculating the risks involved in the situation she was shoved into.

The first mess of numbers was labeled as 'Probability 1: Undetermined', the second said something similar, and was considerably sloppier. Four equations later, there was a simple algebraic expression that read '1 – X 0, Result: Failure'.

Everyone on the base continued to tell her that she did the right thing; that it was for the good of the world, since had the 'traitor', as some called him, went on to fulfill his programming, then two important world leaders would in fact be dead. Some even went to the extreme of declaring that she was a hero for her actions, and even though the praise would have made an ordinary soldier sing with joy, it broke her heart more. She was no hero.

She just felt like a murderer.

A cold blooded murderer who shot him out of spite, knowing she could never have him because of the conflicting feelings she had concerning the remnants in her memories. She could never be certain if what she felt, the One who took her as refuge, felt, and vice versa. Nothing was certain anymore. No math problem could predict or solve this dilemma.

But maybe… maybe there was a way around the events of what transpired, and as she scrambled to find a blank piece of paper, her blurring sight saw the so far unused chalkboard behind her. She hurriedly erased the properties and equations scribbled onto the hard surface, then began to write something akin to a mathematical theory, numbers and letters comprising her present thoughts. To anybody else, it would have looked like random scrawls that a child drew all over the chalkboard, but to her, they held so much more meaning. They would be her own version of proof that perhaps there was a different method of approach.

After completing the formula, she looked upon it in exasperation, breathing heavily as she read it through carefully. Everything seemed theoretically correct, considering she was deprived of the desire to sleep, but ultimately the result was what she feared. Had it been determined much sooner – before his death – she could have changed it all.

There was a chance at keeping him alive, and she was too clouded with fear to realize it in time.

Sam stumbled back to her desk and fell onto her stool, sobbing the night away, head buried in her arms, and her tears were wetting the various pieces of paper she had been writing on. All of her work to determine another alternative ended so poorly that she didn't care if anyone found it. She saw herself as a failure and nothing better, however there were some that knew she could, and ultimately _had_ achieved greater things.

When morning came, and the normal people had returned to their stations, she was so drowned in sleep that she never heard her phone ring multiple times, despite the device being right next to her usually sensitive ears. Since she had a close visitor that was coming to see her, he insisted that no medical team be sent, and that he was fairly confident as to why she wasn't responding to any of the typical phone calls.

Jacob Carter stepped into the dimly lit lab, smiling sadly at his precious daughter who was no doubt coping with the loss of their comrade the hardest, and as her father, and as _his_ friend, he understood the pain in her heart. Yes, she had pulled the trigger, but he didn't hold her responsible – no one did.

His trained vision scanned over the various papers littering her desk and the floor, the numerous equations making sense to his soul mate, but clearly not to him. The one on the chalkboard, though, caught his attention the most, and with barely the tiniest hint of a laugh, he breathed out, "Oh Sam, I know he had a chance, but he would have rather died by your hand than by his own."

So for hours, he sat at his daughter's side, waiting until she awoke to tell her that Martouf had been given the burial she wanted him to have.

* * *

A/N: Like? Dun like? Lemme know in a review! Thanks for your time!

_47thlight_


End file.
